


When I'm Gone

by lithalos



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, basically akira is a ghost, it makes more sense than it sounds i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-02-03 01:32:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12738315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithalos/pseuds/lithalos
Summary: He remembers the last conversation he’d had with that part-timer, just a little over a year ago.





	1. nap time,

**Author's Note:**

> if you follow me on tumblr you know what this is

Once was chance. Twice, coincidence. But for Akechi’s coffee to have mysteriously spirited away  _ three times  _ in one day? Now he didn’t know  _ what _ to make of it. This went far beyond just absently losing track of it, the trick now was finding out  _ how _ . Interrogating the others at the station yielded no answers, just gentle reminders from people who didn’t truly care that he needed sleep.

It was clear, though; no one knew where his coffee was disappearing to. In fact, no one had been near his desk all day. Save for Niijima, of course, but she wasn’t a likely suspect. She had no reason to poach his cheap breakroom coffee, considering she had her own coffeepot at her desk. Beans flowed from her drawers as proliferously as paperwork—Niijima was stocked for the rapture.

Which ultimately begged the question: Where on  _ earth _ was his coffee getting to?

Currently Akechi was on day three of substituting sleep with caffeine, so he briefly entertained the drowsy notion that his coffee had developed sentience. Grew legs and simply wandered away. There weren’t many other (more plausible) explanations for how it kept getting away from him like this.

In the end, he was tired, but not quite tired enough to put stock in that theory. So, sliding into his desk with his  _ fourth _ cup of the day, Akechi watched and waited.

Was it a particularly productive use of his time? Not really, no. The mountains of paperwork leering over him was a painful reminder of that. Though, neither was running on no sleep  _ and _ no caffeine—and he had too many cases piled on his desk to sleep.

That left one other option. A stakeout. He’d always wanted to be on one, truthfully, and this seemed like a good, low-stakes way to do so.

Akechi already knew what he’d title this on his blog, too.  _ Coffee Caper _ . Short, sweet, to the point. Besides, a more cheerful and less drab story had been a long time coming. Even he could only detail the complex inner workings of murder investigations for so long before analyzing blood splatter lost its charm.

As Akechi was quick to find out, though, stakeouts… are boring. It was a  _ long _ while before anything happened. Steam had stopped rising from the cup ages ago, and once or twice Akechi would find himself nodding off at his desk. He’d sip at the cooled coffee before resuming his empty observations. His coffee stayed in place, as it should.

 

Wait.

 

Blinking sleep from his eyes, he blearily stared over at it. Had it… moved? Akechi didn’t quite remember setting it down so close to the edge of the desk—or rather, he  _ hadn’t _ . If there was one thing he was truly good at, it was consistency. Always, he  _ always _ put his mug right next to his monitor, deep on the desk and far from the edge. (There had only been one instance in which he hadn’t—Niijima’s murderous rampage when it had inevitably spilled ensured he  _ never  _ made that mistake again.)

A frown began to tug at Akechi’s face as his sleep-addled brain tried to process this new information. This was starting to get a little weird.

_ It’s a ghost _ , his helpful, sluggish mind supplied.

_ It’s annoying, _ he thought, dragging a hand down his face and rubbing at his eyes. Thanks to this damn vanishing act, his productivity for the day was  _ abysmal _ . Even the easy, mindless stack of paperwork sat unfinished. All because of this infuriatingly unsolvable mystery. With a huff, Akechi cracked open an eye to peer between his fingers at the offending cup.

Ice filled his veins.

A blood-red gloved hand gripped the mug. Akechi’s hand dropped from his face like he was burned, mouth agape as his eyes followed the sleeve of a midnight black trench coat to the face of the Coffee Caper. Grey eyes were almost entirely obscured by a mop of curly hair, rimmed with an oozing black liquid running down his face. And were wide as saucers, a spectral deer caught in the surprised headlights of the the detective.

With an audible  _ clack _ , Akechi snapped his mouth shut and gawked blankly at the intruder. This  _ had  _ to be a joke. A hallucination, a prank,  _ something _ , but his once helpful, analytical brain shuddered to an abrupt stop. Thoughts ground to a halt, clunking into a staticky, whirring silence full of nothing but a whirlwind of endless, indecipherable emotions and devoid of any explanations.

Finally, after agonizingly long moments of unblinking, uncomprehending staring, his brain offered something.  _ Coffee Casper _ . Truly, a helpful analysis of the situation.

Akechi groaning at the useless thought seemed to spur the intruder back into action—a sheepish and weirdly familiar sharp-toothed grin spread across his disturbingly pale face. (Akechi tried to ignore how uncomfortable watching that strange black liquid pool into at the corners of that smile and bleed into that mouth made him.)

“Caught…” The intruder’s voice was muffled and indistinct, hard to make out, almost as if he were trying to speak through a pane of thick glass. There was a brief pause as he pulled his hand excruciatingly slowly from the mug to hold obnoxiously close to the detective’s face. The icy chill emanating from it sent a shiver down Akechi’s spine. “Red… handed?”

Akechi tried to bite back the snort of laughter, he really did. At the sound, however, the intruder seemed to visibly relax, dropping his hand and grinning shyly at Akechi. “You steal my coffee all day and  _ that’s  _ what you have to say for yourself? What a terrible thief.”

The intruder shrugged—or, at least, Akechi  _ thinks _ he did, but it was honestly hard to tell. Staring at him felt oddly like staring too long at the sun. It left his vision blurry and spotty, a hint of a migraine burning at the back of his mind. The longer he tried, the more his head pounded painfully in his skull, hammering nauseatingly out of sync with his heart.

That blood red glove moved through Akechi’s hazy field of vision as an indistinct blot of color in the dark, stopping at the intruder’s face. Squinting, he was able to make out a hand twirling a curl anxiously around his finger. (And that, to Akechi’s growing dismay, the glove wasn’t  _ actually _ connected to a wrist, simply an empty jacket sleeve.)

“I’ve gotten three cups from you today,” the intruder sniffed petulantly. Akechi barely registered it through the growing ringing in his ears, warm and sloshing in his skull. “I wouldn’t say  _ terrible thief _ .”

The intruder’s words were drowned out by the roaring waves of the ocean in Akechi’s ears. A shaky hand reached to one, leaden and tingling. Then warm and sickeningly wet.

* * *

Akechi doesn't remember losing consciousness, but then again, one generally doesn't. All he knew was that he opened his eyes to the familiar bland white ceiling of his apartment with a groan and a thunderous headache. And vague, almost dreamlike memories of grey eyes and red hands.

A hallucination, he thinks. At least, until he turns his head slightly to the left to see grey eyes very, very close to his own. The shriek he let out was  _ very  _ dignified as he scooted abruptly away, cursing as his back hit the wall and heart thudded in his chest.

The grey eyes don't look surprised,  just weirdly curious as they bore unwaveringly into him. “You're awake.”

“You're trespassing,” he snapped back, flattening against the wall as the intruder inched fluidly closer. The way he moved was unsettling—like he was perpetually immersed in water Akechi couldn't see.

A light, bubbly laugh burst from the intruder as his grey eyes crinkled with a smile and shook loose that revolting black liquid. Now that it was lighter, Akechi could almost make out what it was… “I'm always trespassing.”

Black blood. That's what it was. Akechi wrinkled his nose and pushed that thought away. Nothing good could come from analyzing that bit of information. “That's an odd thing to admit to a detective.”

A wily grin replaced the smile as the intruder lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Cuff me, then.” The shit-eating glint in his eyes indicated he  _ knew _ that would be far easier said than done.

“Cute.”

There was something strangely familiar about him that Akechi couldn’t quite place, scratching uncomfortably at the back of his mind. Familiar, but not enough to remember. The intruder just shrugged; Akechi noted, oddly enough, it was much easier this time around to keep his eyes on him. Not that he wanted to, though. “I try.”

“So what are you then? My reminder to sleep?” Akechi raised a brow at the intruder, watching as confusion flickered across his face.

“I don't follow.”

With a sigh, Akechi relaxed away from the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “Clearly you're a hallucination. Sleep deprivation is an interesting thing.”

Another laugh tore itself from the intruder, this one dry and mirthless. “You know what I am.”

Yes, he did. Akechi had a hunch, at least. Hallucinations don't move coffee cups, don't leave an overwhelming chill in their wake. He knew that. He knew there was only one real kicker of a conclusion to draw from this. “You understand my skepticism, don't you?”

There was a brief moment of silence, the ghost of sorrow flitting across the intruder’s face as his grey eyes darted away from Akechi’s. He settled on the edge of the bed, still somehow  _ moving _ despite being entirely still. Like energy thrumming beneath the surface, rippling his form and shifting him. After the brief silence, when the intruder did finally speak, his tone was hushed. Quiet. Conflicted. “Of course I do. It's not every day a ghost just waltzes into your life.”

Hearing him say it out loud solidified the mounting dread in Akechi’s chest. A ghost. An honest to god ghost was sitting before him. Akechi wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

He didn't; something about that lonely look on the intruder’s face kept him from doing so. “You’re right. It's not something I've had the pleasure of experiencing before, so I just…” Akechi paused, uncertain and hesitant. Here was a ghost—a genuine, bona fide ghost—sitting before him and he just couldn't wrap his head around it. How could he? This should be a stark impossibility, and yet… “I'm questioning if it's real.”

The intruder nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “I get it,” he began, reaching his unnervingly disembodied hand to tug at black bangs. A nervous habit; interesting a ghost would  _ have _ those, Akechi thinks absently. “There are some days even  _ I  _ wonder if I'm real.”

This was starting to get into a metaphysical, philosophical realm Akechi wasn't entirely willing to broach on the cusp of having just woken up. So instead, he cleared his throat and scooted ever-so-slightly closer to the spectre. “If you're going to be haunting me, I guess it would only be polite to learn your name.” Akechi aimed for a nonchalant, almost bored tone. Even to his ears, though, it fell flat—straight into drowsy territory.

The intruder’s blank stare stretched on for eternity, the silence even  _ longer _ ; Akechi was just beginning to worry he wasn't intending on replying when a musing pout cut across pale features. “...Huh,” was all he said, even after all that buildup.

“What?” Akechi  _ really _ tried to reign in the affronted note poisoning his tone. He wasn't successful.

“Didn't think I'd get this far, honestly.” The intruder's gloves were once more tangled in the curly mess atop his head.

“What, you mean you stole my coffee without a  _ plan _ ?”

“Hey, I carefully plotted out stealing from you.” The disgruntled tone to the intruder’s voice caught Akechi’s amused attention. Odd thing to take offense to, all things considered. “What came after, though… not so much.”

“Incredible.” Akechi scoffed. “I'm being haunted by an idiot.” Then, after brief consideration. “An idiot who still hasn't given a name, actually.”

“Don't know I want to now,” the intruder grumbled. The frown cutting across the unsettling black rivers of blood on his face grew a little. “...Joker.”

“Joker,” Akechi deadpanned. “You expect me to believe that's your name?”

‘Joker’ shrugged noncommittally, not quite meeting Akechi’s eye. “It's all you're getting, at least.” There was an odd strain to his voice; defensive, but without a fire behind his words it just felt hollow. Empty.

It was clear Joker had no intentions of changing his answer, however, so Akechi shook his head and moved on—and just a tad closer. The closer he crept, he noted, the more oppressive the permeating cold grew. Interesting. “How long have you been a ghost?” He couldn't help it; the nagging curiosity was lit the moment he confirmed an impossibility sat before him.

Surprise colored Joker's face (as well as, oddly enough, a light dusting of pink) as he tried to shift further from the detective. “Uh...not long. A year, I think?”

“Are there others like you?”

“I don't know—”

“Can other people see you?” Akechi was becoming pointedly aware of the fact he was inching closer with every question he rattled off.

Joker  _ also _ seemed to notice and has since attempted to sit still and just let the detective investigate. Though, if the growing discomfort (and the curiously deepening shade of pink) on his face was anything to go by, he’d much rather be at a distance. “No, you're the only one so far.”

The cold, Akechi found, was bearable the longer he sat within its reach; he barely felt the sting as he craned his head this way and that to inspect Joker. He'd learned some interesting tidbits doing so, at least. First, the black blood wasn't coming from his eyes as Akechi had previously theorized. It appeared to be coming from underneath his bangs and dripping down his face from a centralized location.

Second, Joker still appeared to breathe and blink like a normal, living person. His breath even smelled like mint. Faint, yes, but an interesting fact nonetheless.

Akechi froze. He was close enough to  _ smell Joker’s breath _ —he was very,  _ very _ close. It was very apparent  _ Joker _ had noticed this as well, as he’d gone stock still and was nervously chewing at his lip.

“I—sorry!” With an awkward laugh, Akechi moved to pull away when a blood red hand on his arm stopped him.

Slowly, deliberately, Joker shook his head. “It's fine. I'm just…” He sucked in a shuddering breath, grey eyes pointedly everywhere  _ but _ Akechi. “Not used to being this close to someone.”

Akechi was quiet as pity turned in his stomach. If what Joker had said was true, he likely hadn't been able to talk with someone—to  _ be _ with someone—in a year. No wonder he was so squirrelly under Akechi’s (admittedly harsh and unyielding) stare. “Are you sure it's all right?”

Joker didn't  _ look _ sure as he nodded his affirmation, but Akechi wasn't about to turn up a free pass to investigate. Instead, he lifted his hand very, very slowly to Joker’s face, watching for any indication to stop. When none came, Akechi allowed his fingertips to gently ghost across Joker’s face, across that strange black blood staining it.

To his immense surprise Joker was...warm. A far cry from the overwhelming cold rolling off him in waves. The tiniest sigh escaped Joker’s lips as Akechi’s fingertips slid across his face, through the slick blood that didn't stick to his hand. Contentment flickered across the ghost's face as grey eyes fluttered shut, along with an emotion Akechi couldn't place.

There was an energy humming just beneath the surface of Joker’s skin—it sparked under Akechi's fingers, tingling and white-hot. It was addicting, the currents of power coursing through him as he moved his hand to swipe his thumb across Joker’s lips. Soft, smooth as he pulled at the top lip to reveal a large, sharp canine.

Joker’s breath was short and uneven, puffing weakly against Akechi’s fingers. The electricity seemed to spike in intensity, screaming through his skin wherever it came into contact, intoxicating and disorienting. Akechi wanted  _ more _ —he was almost drunk on it, acting on impulse as he brought his other hand to cup at Joker’s cheek.

Joker, to his credit, had been mostly calm up until this point; now, however, his breath caught in his throat before he hiccuped out a soft cry. “Wait!”

Akechi stopped, snapped out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. Beneath his hands, Joker was panting, grey eyes hazy, unfocused and face flushed. He was—

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

Red hands on top of his own kept him from yanking away like he'd  _ actually _ been electrified. “Joker, I'm—holy  _ shit _ , I am so sorry.” Akechi began babbling out, feeling his own face flare a bright, bright red. “I—I don't know what came over me.”

The silence that fell between them was heavy and awkward until Akechi began to notice Joker’s breathing slowly evening out under his touch. More notable, though, was the burning energy searing his hands was slowly dying down, simmering down to something more manageable.

Something less  _ potent _ .

“That was…” Joker's voice was breathless and hoarse. “Unexpected.”

“Do  _ you _ have any idea what that was about?” Akechi was becoming increasingly aware that Joker's hands were  _ still  _ holding his own to his face. And increasingly nervous about that fact. When he felt the small shake of Joker’s head in his hands, he sighed. “Fine. Unexpected is an  _ understatement _ , then.”

“What can I say,” with a forced huff of a laugh, Joker’s face pulled into a crooked grin. “I'm electrifying.”

“You're insufferable is what you are.”

Now he was pouting, though the playful glint in those grey eyes betrayed him. “I'm  _ shocked _ , Detective.”

Akechi groaned, rolling his eyes but unable to keep the small smile from his face. Try as he may, the detective couldn't help but find Joker's terrible puns endearing. And truly, they were  _ terrible _ puns. “That… whatever  _ that _ was aside, we should probably talk.”

“All ears, Detective.” Joker still wasn't surrendering Akechi’s hands, just keeping them held to his face with disembodied gloves and a hopeful spark in his eyes.

Akechi was reluctant to indulge the ghost but the pity brewing in his chest allowed it. For now. Clearly in his year between life and death, Joker has forgotten basic social etiquette. “Are you planning on…  _ actually _ haunting me?”

That stupid, insufferable, adorable pout was back. If it wasn't on a face dripping with horrifying amounts of black blood that never seemed to  _ go  _ anywhere, Akechi might have found it overwhelmingly charming. “What, trying to get rid of me already?”

“Even if I told you to leave, would you?” Akechi asked with a brow quirked and lips pressed into a thin line.

“No, probably not.”

“Didn't think so,” Akechi sighed. “So you plan on—what, lurking?”

Grey eyes stared unblinking into his own for a long, long moment. The silence stretched between them, unsettling yet comfortable all at the same time. Dichotomy— _ unusual _ dichotomy—seemed to be Joker's specialty. Charming, yet creepy. Witty, yet insufferable.

Pitiable, yet still somehow less so than Akechi.

“I don't know. I didn't  _ plan _ this,” Joker finally huffed out, skirting his eyes from the detective. On the defensive again, though it still lacked the passion to make it believable. “But… I don't want to go back to being alone.”

On that last word, on  _ alone _ , Joker’s voice cracked and Akechi’s heart broke. Alone for a year. Alone so thoroughly no one could hear him speak,  _ see _ him,  _ know he was there _ . Alone, alone, alone.

Akechi liked to think he knew a thing or two about being alone. “You… don't have to,” he began hesitantly, weighing his words as carefully as he knew how. “I won't tell you to leave.” Joker’s eyes lit up as a faint, ghost of a smile crossed his face; Akechi levelled him with a serious stare to quell that surge of excitement before it could grow too quickly. “ _ But  _ we need to establish some ground rules.”

Clearing his throat, Joker reigned in his enthusiasm and put on a mockery of stoicism. “Of course. Name your terms, Detective.”

Ignoring Joker's return to a less-than-serious attitude, Akechi nodded. “All right. First off,  _ no more stealing my coffee _ ,” he hissed, annoyance twinging in his stomach when Joker was looking much too pleased with himself. “I have work to do. Coffee gets it done.”

“You know, coffee’s bad for your heart.” Joker gave him a cheeky, concerned frown. “I was only looking out for you, you know.”

Akechi didn’t even dignify that with a response, save for a flat stare and a thin frown. “ _ Second _ .” He tugged at his hands, still somehow held to Joker’s face, still against that bizarrely warm skin— “Personal space.”

Wasting no time relinquishing his hold, Joker dropped his hands as if he were burned with a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

Guilty? Akechi didn’t feel guilty as Joker’s face fell, doing a damn good impression of a scolded puppy. He didn’t feel guilty when his hands now felt so, so cold away from Joker’s skin. He didn’t. “Third, if you’re going to be hanging around like this, I make one demand.”

“Anything,” Joker blurted out—too quickly, so eager.

“I get to ask one question a day.”

Immediately, Joker recoiled. “No. Absolutely not.”

As Akechi thought—the ghost was hiding something. “But Joker, this kind of relationship is based on trust.” Was he laying the guilt on a little thick? Probably. “And I didn’t say you had to answer, necessarily.”

“You wouldn’t be happy if I  _ didn’t _ ,” Joker grumbled out, slouching down with a huff.

“Which you would have to live with.” With a smile, his bland pleasant smile, he sat as primly as he could before the ghost. If he was going to play the part of the difficult, high maintenance roommate, he’d play it damn well. “A fair trade, I’d think. You get someone to haunt, I satisfy my curiosity. A win-win.”

If the look on Joker’s face was anything to go by, he definitely did  _ not _ consider this a  _ win _ . Reluctance clung to his expression as he gnawed absently at his lip, toying with his disembodied gloves in his lap. Nervous, Akechi realized. Joker was nervous about about something. “Fine.” He bit out after an agonizing, contemplative silence. “But if I answer the question, you have to make me coffee.”

Akechi scrunched his nose at that. “Why? Can you even  _ drink _ coffee?”

A wistful look crossed Joker’s face for the briefest moment before he tamped it down. “I can’t. Not since I… but I can smell it.” He took in a shuddering breath, not quite meeting Akechi’s eyes. “I… miss it a lot.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, what he  _ could _ say to that, so instead he replied simply: “Okay.”

The downcast mood was swept away with a bright smile from Joker at his acceptance. “Really?” This excited over  _ coffee _ ? “I mean,” he coughed, curbing his reaction a bit. “Thank you.”

Akechi just hummed his response, unsure of how to proceed in the conversation; he decided to drop it for now. It became painfully clear they’d have  _ plenty _ of time to continue it later. So, with the confidence it was over for now, Akechi began shifting, sliding off the bed and being very, very careful not to touch Joker in the process.

It was that moment Akechi realized he was  _ not _ in the clothes he’d worn to work yesterday. Now, instead of his button down, slacks, and striped tie, he wore a baggy Featherman tee shirt he’d reserved for sleeping and no pants, simply the boxers he’d worn the day prior. The confusion must have been visible on his face as Joker huffed out an awkward laugh.

“Right. Niijima brought you home after you passed out.”

Not the mystery he wanted solved at the moment, but it was nice nonetheless. “Did she change my clothes as well?” That certainly would have been a surprise, as well as a little disconcerting.

Joker’s pregnant, uncomfortable pause was enough of a confirmation, but he wasn’t expecting the clarification. “Yeah… there was… a fair amount of blood on your clothes. She kept muttering to herself about how she’d feel wrong just leaving you like that.”

Blood?

“I’m sorry,” Joker continued—why was he apologizing? “I… it was my fault. I didn’t realize you were too weak to handle me being around you like that.”

What was  _ that  _ supposed to mean? Akechi was confused. Very confused.

“It  _ means _ I didn’t realize you were trying to set a world record for sleep deprivation.” Had he said that out loud? Joker sounded annoyed mostly, but the slight hint of regret in his voice gave him away. “I guess whatever I am doesn’t sit well with people who haven’t gotten the good old fashioned eight hours.”

Akechi frowned, letting his eyes scan his clinically clean apartment for the rumored bloody clothes. “Does this mean I’m going to have to fix my sleep schedule with you around?”

“If you don’t want a repeat of last night, probably.”

He groaned. Great. Just what he needed. The world’s weirdest sleep aid. Farewell to his productivity. “Fine. Just as long as it doesn’t interfere…  _ too _ much with work, it should be fine.” He began plodding through his bare one-room apartment to his closet, trying to ignore how he wobbled with each step. Even if his dignity was already in shambles, he wouldn’t call more attention to it. “Can I ask a question?”

“Will you make me coffee if I answer?” From the sound of his voice, Joker had stayed put on the bed. Good—Akechi didn’t need the stupid, insufferable, unfortunately attractive ghost helping him get dressed. He had a sneaking suspicion that would end with him in  _ less _ clothes than he started.

Not the best way of christening a new insoluble roommate agreement, he thinks. “I’m making coffee regardless of whether or not you answer,” he said, pulling a plain white tee shirt from the hook and fishing out a pair of dark jeans. It would have to do for now; Akechi couldn’t be bothered to dress to the nines today. “Is that a yes?”

A sigh. “Yes.”

Akechi hastily pulled on his jeans before turning to face the ghost, who was now pointedly avoiding eye contact. Instead, Joker chose to stare longingly at the coffeemaker sitting alone on his kitchen counter. Consistent if nothing else, at least. “Why me?”

Joker’s eyes snapped to him. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Why did you start haunting me to begin with?” The pause stretching between them was long enough for Akechi to quickly swap shirts, and once that was done… Joker looked no closer to answering the question. If anything, he seemed to want to  _ avoid _ it. “There had to have been a reason, right?”

Joker was once again avoiding eye contact, choosing to stare holes into his floor instead. “It’s gonna sound weird.”

“Weirder than being haunted by a ghost in a trench coat?” Akechi raised a brow. With a heavy sigh, Joker buried his face in his red gloves and muttered out  _ something _ . Whatever it was, it was completely unintelligible. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“...you smell like coffee.” Joker mumbled, muffled by his gloves but still loud enough to hear this time.

“Really?  _ That’s  _ the reason?”

With a start, Joker’s head snapped up and mortified and indignant grey eyes met Akechi’s. “I  _ told _ you it was gonna sound weird! Even I know that’s not something you normally say.”

Good to know he still had  _ some _ memory of social standards. Not that it seemed to matter much anyways, given the circumstances. “Seriously though? Is that why you stole my coffee?”

“At first, yeah.” Joker still looked a little humiliated, but it was quickly replaced with a contemplative frown. “Then it just kind of turned into a game of seeing how many cups I could steal from you in one day. You’re cute when you’re confused—nothing like that serious scowl you always have.”

Somehow, Akechi knew Joker only did it to annoy him. There was no surprise in that revelation. Akech sighed dramatically and made his way to the kitchen with Joker’s grey eyes following him the whole way there. “Your record being four cups,” he said offhandedly as he flicked on the coffeemaker.

Joker was by his side in a flash—Akechi  _ definitely _ hadn’t seen him get up  _ or _ walk over here but he squashed that thought down before it could truly form. Rules of nature didn’t apply to someone clearly existing outside them. “Five, actually, but I don’t think you remembered making that last cup. You fell asleep almost immediately after making it.” If the words coming out of Joker’s mouth weren’t infuriating as all hell, Akechi would find his childlike enthusiasm as he watched the coffeemaker heat up endearing. (Even still, he couldn’t help but find the excitement blossoming in those grey eyes strangely adorable.)

A comfortable quiet fell between them as the smell of slightly burnt convenience store coffee filled the air. Joker appeared to have taken Akechi's personal space rule to heart—he was anxiously rocking back and forth about a foot behind the detective, eyes never once leaving the steaming pot. As entertaining as the ghost's exuberance was, Akechi couldn't help biting back his nervousness. It was fairly cheap coffee; first thing on the shelf was the first thing in his basket. Even Akechi was loath to drink it if he didn't have to, opting to stop by one of his favorite cafés before work instead. More expensive, yes, but it didn't leave Akechi’s throat like sandpaper and a lingering taste of dirt in his mouth.

The ghost would be disappointed, and Akechi couldn't quite place why that made him so upset.

Finally, a small series of beeps indicated his newest pot of sludge was done. With his usual, scratched black mug and a shiny white one that had never seen use, he brought the pot to the tiny table between the kitchen and his bed. Joker followed like a kitten at his heels, pausing when Akechi slumped into one of two chairs and poured both cups. Funny, Akechi thinks; the living and the dead caught in an empty apartment brimming with the smell of coffee.

It only took a few moments for Joker to finally slide into the chair across from Akechi, looking unsettled and out of place. Red gloves slowly grasped the white mug, methodical and slow in his movements.

It only took a few seconds for Akechi to feel as if he were intruding—in his own home, no less. The sorrow, the longing settling onto Joker’s face felt too private, intimate in its honesty. Akechi wanted to look away, to feign ignorance and pretend he'd never seen such a harsh slip of Joker’s aloof, carefree, and mischievous mask. Truly, it would be better for them both if he did.

He couldn't. Something about the grey, plaintive stare set on the mug in red hands had Akechi’s gaze rooted to the ghost. Joker's face never once lost that melancholy look, not even as he raised the mug to his lips.

And paused.

“This is always the hardest part,” he said. Quiet—so much so, Akechi nearly missed it entirely. “Knowing even if I  _ did  _ try to drink it, I couldn't taste it anyways.”

“What happens if you do?” Akechi found himself asking. Hopefully Joker wouldn't notice he was going over his daily question limit.

He didn't. “I spend the next three hours puking up black blood.” Joker's eyes shifted from the coffee to Akechi,  a wry smile pressed against the white mug clasped in his hands. The yearning in his expression was honest and heart wrenching. “I gave up trying a while ago. Just wasn't worth it.”

“But you can still smell it, right?”

Joker merely hummed in response, his eyes slipping closed as he took in a deep breath. Akechi took that opportunity to take a sip of his own (terrible) coffee, thinking.

“I should take you to this café,” Akechi begins, setting his mug back on the table. Joker doesn't move, just hums out a confirmation that he's listening, so the detective continues. “Honestly the best coffee I've ever had. The man who makes it is a master.”

“Hearing you speak such high praise is new.” With a raspy laugh, Joker let his eyes meet Akechi’s. “Must really be something special.”

Akechi responds in kind with a chuckle, propping his head on his hand and staring out at the blank apartment. Something had been  _ nagging _ at him this whole time, and he was just  _ so close _ to figuring out what it was. “Truly, it is.” So, so  _ close. _ “The coffee is absolutely fantastic—Sakura is a genius, I swear. Used to be a part-timer there a while ago, too. His coffee wasn't…  _ quite _ as good as Sakura’s but he was good company.”

So, so,  _ so close _ !

Joker had frozen, a blank look on his face as the coffee mug nearly slipped from.his grasp. For a fraction of a moment, Akechi was confused; this reaction was unexpected. He honestly had no idea why Joker suddenly looked paler than the dead, had no clue why his relaxed form had suddenly tensed.

A year, he thinks.

He remembers the last conversation he’d had with that part-timer, just a little over a year ago. It had been stilted, awkward—a far cry from the languid, easy conversations they’d had before.

_ “Be sure to keep Boss company when I'm gone,”  _ the barista had said. He wouldn't meet Akechi’s eyes.

_ “I'm afraid I don't follow.” _

The barista had just smiled, small and sad.  _ “He's gonna need some company. Can you do that?” _

Akechi remembers being confused, dread pooling in his stomach with every passing second. He remembers the way the barista wouldn't face him, kept a very careful distance from him. It was odd. Very odd. Akechi remembers trying to fish for the reason, with a line of woefully inadequate information.  _ “Ah, yes, I suppose your probation will be up soon. Returning home, I take it?” _

The silence that fell through the café was stifling. It suffocated Akechi, oppressive and unsettling.

The barista’s smile fell.  _ “Something like that, _ ” he had said. And just like that, the conversation had ended.

And just like that, the barista had disappeared.

Akechi hadn't thought much about it, beyond the occasional twist of unwarranted guilt in his gut. Only once had he tried asking Sakura where the barista went. The heavy silence and agonized expression was the only answer he needed.

A year. Just a little over a year ago had been the last time Akechi had seen Kurusu Akira.

Alive, at least.


	2. some coffee?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akechi does some digging and finds nothing good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waow

For a while, things were… well, not normal, since Akechi doubted having a coffee-loving phantom following at his heels all day would be considered  _ normal _ in anyone's book. Calm, though. Things were calm.

He and Joker fell into a routine—as promised, Akechi evened out his sleep schedule to avoid taking an unwanted, bloody nap. Every morning he'd brew a pot of coffee (he even bought better beans for the occasion) and he'd set out two mugs on the table. With the smell of coffee hanging in the air, he found Joker was far more willing to speak freely and Akechi took full advantage of the opportunity.

Underhanded? Probably. Akechi staved off any guilt he felt by giving Joker a cup of coffee even if he didn't answer the day’s question.

It had been a full week since the ghost stole his last cup of coffee. A full week of questions, and all Akechi had really learned was strange idiosyncrasies of what it was like to roam the ethereal plane. He had learned Joker could go visible and invisible to him at will, though it was later explained he rarely bothered to do so as no one but Akechi could see him anyways. Joker  _ also _ appeared to be entirely corporeal. Odd, considering ghosts were supposed to be spiritual observers, unable to interact with the world in any way.

It was then, with a wry, strained smile that Joker had said that was exactly what he was. Just with the added bonus of being able to steal coffee.

That being said, there were two things Joker would  _ not _ respond to. First being requests to investigate his form more thoroughly—Akechi will admit to having wondered how much of the ghost was made of flesh. (Or rather, as close to flesh as a ghost can be.) Initially, Joker’s protests cited back to the first and only time Akechi had touched him.

_ “I just don't know what it does to you _ ,” he had said, looking less concerned and more shifty, suspicious.  _ “I don't want to take that risk. Sorry.” _

Now when asked, Joker gives a noncommittal shrug before vanishing from sight, leaving Akechi dumbfounded and alone with two cups of coffee.

Second was a bit trickier to ask questions around.

Joker never talked about who he was, and Akechi never talked about knowing who he was. They danced around the subject with Joker frantically shutting down conversation the moment it turned to his past or disappearing entirely. It became painfully clear to Akechi that the ghost was  _ hiding _ something the longer this awkward waltz continued. What, he wasn't sure.

Even if he couldn't find out from Joker, Akechi was  _ determined _ to uncover the truth. To unravel the mystery behind the disappearance and impossible, supernatural  _ reappearance _ of Kurusu Akira.

Answers came from a surprising source, to say the least. After having left in a rush from oversleeping without coffee or answers and subsequently striking out trying to nonchalantly ask Sakura where Kurusu had gone, Akechi left with his usual coffee, (a glare at his back,) and dampened enthusiasm. The lack of energy seeped into his casework—it had only taken Niijima a couple hours to skulk over to investigate, much to his chagrin.

“What is  _ up _ with you?” She huffed out, slapping a recently submitted file onto his desk. “This is the  _ fourth _ incomplete file I've gotten from you today.”

Akechi had to swallow a groan; last thing he wanted was to deal with the bloodhound Niijima sniffing at his ghostly personal life. “I'm sorry, Niijima, I've had a long day.”

“It’s ten in the morning,” Niijima said, lips pulled into a tight frown. Upon closer inspection she  _ actually _ looked concerned instead of  _ just _ annoyed. She was definitely annoyed too, though. “What could you have possibly gotten yourself into to have had a long day already?”

He could be honest. He could tell her about the ghost waiting patiently in his apartment for his return. The hard stare she's giving him signals that as a poor decision.

So he does what he does best: he lies. “Sorry, I just took on a personal missing persons cold case.” Akechi adds a soft sigh for dramatic effect. With Niijima, it paid to be as sympathetic as possible. “It hasn't been going well, though.”

This seemed to have sparked Niijima’s interest. “Missing persons? Who?”

“I'm not sure if it was ever reported,” he begins slowly, laying on the innocent confusion as thick as he could without drawing suspicion. “A close friend of someone named Kurusu Akira asked I look into his disappearance. I haven't had much luck so far—”

Whatever response Akechi had been expecting when he glanced back up at her, it wasn't what he got by a long shot. Niijima had frozen, a look of shock etched onto her usually severe face. Her mouth was slack, eyes wide in an odd mix of surprise and… something Akechi couldn't name. It was only when he cleared his throat that she thawed, if only marginally.

“You shouldn't be looking into that.” She hissed, dropping her eyes so they no longer met his. Niijima appeared to collapse in on herself, withdrawing and inching away from Akechi’s desk. Never,  _ never _ had he seen Niijima respond that way.

It told him two things: first, that Niijima  _ definitely _ knew something about Kurusu’s disappearance.

Second, whatever it was she knew… wasn't pretty. It was enough to turn Japan’s most ferocious and stubborn prosecutor into a sniveling coward.

That didn't bode well.

Panic rose in his throat. Or was that bile? “You know something about this, Niijima?” His chair clattered noisily to the ground as he jumped to his feet. An answer was  _ so close _ , so within his reach he could nearly taste it.

In a moment, her expression had shifted from one of rattled horror to that of a slow skepticism. Belatedly, he realized he let his mask slip, let her see the truth for even an  _ instant _ , and she seemed aware of it as well. The gear had switched from terrified, and straight back to prosecutor the second he showed his hand. “A close friend of him, hm?” The sharp, icy tone lanced through him; he was cooked, through and through. “Why are you  _ really _ looking into this, Akechi?”

Would she believe him if he told the truth? “I…” His words faltered and failed him. There was simply no way for Niijima to understand, no way to be honest. “I knew him before he disappeared.” Not technically a lie but guilt simmered in his stomach anyways. It was  _ never _ a good idea to even think of lying to Niijima; she had an uncanny talent for pulling the truth from him like teeth the moment he thought himself safe.

The harsh glare softened, if only a bit. “Ah, yes. He used to live at the café you frequent, if I recall correctly.” 

Akechi nodded, slowly. For now it appeared he steered the conversation away from his interest in the case and back to gathering information. He knew it was fleeting at best, though. Niijima Sae was far too adept at catching him with his guard down and wringing answers from him when he’d previously thought she'd let it go. A terrifying ability, honestly, and one that unsettled Akechi to no end.

“Yes, I, uh—he did,” Akechi replied lamely. Meeting Sae’s stare felt dangerous, yet moreso to avoid it. The shifty criminal is always most suspicious, he thinks glumly. “I just… wanted to know what happened. I know he didn't make it back to his hometown.”

There was a brief flicker of that bleak panic on her face that was quickly overcome by a sombre frown. Even knowing the endpoint—that being Kurusu’s untimely demise—it still strung Akechi with worry. Niijima had seen plenty of deaths too soon and not batted an eye.

Something about this was  _ different. _ Worse.

“Akechi, this is…” Niijima was strangely reluctant to finish her sentence, digging her neat nails into the sleeves of her suit. “What you're looking into is dangerous. More than I think you realize.”

His eyes searched her face for any signs of a patronizing note and came up empty. This wasn't her treating him like a child—and truthfully, Niijima rarely was wont to do so. That was part of the reason he took to her so well; she didn't coddle him or treat him as if he were inferior. Akechi had proven himself to be her equal, and she treated him as such.

This was concern, then. Genuine, heartfelt concern for his safety.

Akechi appreciated the sentiment, at least. “I'm prepared for any risks I'll be taking,” he said, more to himself than to Niijima. Then, stronger this time: “After all, this is my job, right?”

At that Niijima smiled; it was small, but still there nonetheless. “I shouldn't have expected anything less of you. But we can't discuss it here.” Unsurprising, considering how dangerous Niijima believed the topic to be. Akechi still had to bite back disappointment. “In the meantime, you may want to look into the café and Kurusu’s…  _ friends _ more closely.”

The way Niijima stressed the word ‘ _ friends _ ’ immediately caught his attention; she was giving him a hint, something to work with. With a growing smile, he rose to his feet.

“I think I'll be taking the rest of the day off, Niijima. I'm feeling rather ill as of late.”

The proud smile on her face as she turned didn't escape his notice, nor the way she paused at the door with a small shake of her head.

He wouldn’t dwell on it. She’d given him a lead.

There was work to be done.

* * *

“I don't know how many times I have to answer your questions before you give up!”

Sakura was yelling; Akechi wished he could say he was  _ surprised _ , but… even he knew his unending persistence this time was grating. It was a miracle he hadn't been tossed out on his head yet.

Clearly, he was getting close, though. “Sakura, I just need to know who Kurusu’s acquaintances were—”

“Haven't they been through enough?” Sakura seemed to have lost the fire and flames in his words as he slumped back onto the counter behind him, looking  _ old _ . Like the conversation itself had aged him decades. “You have a lot of nerve poking around  _ now _ , kid,” he added with an empty glare.

Guilt began worming its way into Akechi’s heart, ugly and cold. Sakura may as well have come right out and said it: he was too late to do anything, to change anything. No matter how much digging he did, all he'd come home to is a ghost. Nothing Akechi could do, no answers he found, would change the fact Kurusu was very much dead.

But…

Kurusu deserved justice. Closure. That was all Akechi could give now.

“There’s no excuse,” Akechi began slowly, carefully mulling over his words before he spoke. “The system failed him. I want to do my best to fix that.”

Sakura’s harsh stare had Akechi fidgeting in his seat but he didn't look away. It was clear the old man was searching for something—a shred of insincerity, a reason to distrust him. Akechi wouldn't give him anything of the sort. Finally, a sigh as Sakura seemed to let some of the tension from his shoulders. “I can get you in touch with his friends. No promises they'll talk to you, though.”

Akechi smiled. “Thank you.”

Sakura shook his head. “I wouldn't thank me just yet,” he warned, peering skeptically over his glasses. “But… if you're serious about this…”

“I am.”

There was another pause, another moment of Sakura watching his expression, as if expecting the next card turned to be a lie. Odd that Akechi was being so forthright, sure, but the wariness had the seeds of discomfort taking root in his chest.

“Then I want to help you as best I can.” Sakura said with a tired smile. His eyes were considerably softer, more trusting as he pushed away from the counter. “It'll take me a day or so to hunt all of those kids down and gather them—”

A nondescript, almost bland tune interrupted him; Sakura pulled his phone from his pocket with surprise clearly etched onto his face. One that only grew as he stared longer at the screen.

“Is something wrong?”

For a moment, Sakura searched the screen in shock before blinking blankly up at the detective. “Be here tomorrow.”

Well, that's ominous. “I'm sorry?”

Instead of clarification, Sakura shook his head and rushed out from behind the counter. The urgency folded onto his face aged him another decade, but the sharp set to the old man’s jaw signified (very clearly, thank you) he did not give a damn. “Sorry, but I'm going to need to close up shop.” The words were rushed and uneven, brimming with an emotion Akechi found himself woefully unfamiliar with.

He nodded anyways, rising to his feet with a polite smile. “Of course. Thank you, Sakura.”

The piercing stare over thick glasses nearly made him pause just outside the door. “Don't thank me yet,” Sakura said again, mirroring his earlier caution with a tight frown before nodding curtly and making his way hastily down the street. Akechi watched the retreat for a moment, before beginning his trek back to his apartment.

Once a respectable distance from the café, Akechi let out a long, drawn out sigh. Today had only gotten weirder and weirder as it went on; truthfully, he was beginning to feel a twinge of apprehension for the next curveball it would throw his way.

Besides returning home to the ghost of the man he was investigating, of course.

Akechi couldn't help himself; he smiled. Each day when he’d arrive home, Joker would follow him like a lost pup (at a respectable distance, of course, he remembers the rules) and ask simple questions of his own. They were usually related to things easily found in the apartment. (Explaining his well-hidden Featherman collector’s disks was difficult, but it was a conversation that ended with them watching Akechi’s favorite one and Joker floating around mimicking the fight choreography. He was hilariously bad at it, honestly, but with the giant smile on his face, Akechi would never break it to him.)

It became routine. Normal.

He felt guilty, though, being so grateful to have something—some _ one _ , he reminds himself—to come home to. He felt guilty for hoping to see Joker smile, for looking forward to simply  _ talking _ with him again. It wasn't fair to Joker, Kurusu,  _ whatever _ , to crave his presence so much now. Not when Joker had no one else, absolutely no one, he could be with.

Not guilty enough to keep from buying a new blend of coffee for his question tonight, however.

* * *

With the smell of freshly brewed coffee filling Akechi’s apartment and two mugs steaming before him and the ghost, the detective steeled himself. Today was the day he’d get a new answer. Joker wouldn’t worm his way out of this one.

It was as if the ghost could sense his determination; Joker was uncharacteristically nervous, shifting uncomfortably in his seat across from Akechi. His eyes darted between the mug to Akechi, almost as if he contemplated just stealing it and making his escape. The glare Akechi was levelling him with kept Joker rooted to the spot.

The ghost cleared his throat, trying to put on a nonchalant and casual tone. “So… what’s the question of the day today?” IN the end, it was stilted, awkward, brimming with discomfort. 

Akechi almost felt bad for him; clearly he knew he wasn’t getting out of this. Even if Joker didn’t know where this was going, he likely understood it wasn’t somewhere he  _ wanted _ it to go. “I want to see what happens when you drink the coffee.” The detective said after (intentionally) letting Joker squirm under his stare for a moment.

The reaction was immediate; horror blossomed on the ghost's face as he sputtered. “I told you what happens—” He began, panic settling into his expression until Akechi raised a hand to stop him.

“Do you…” the detective took a steadying breath. There was just no getting around how odd this was going to sound. “Do you remember what happened when I, um, touched you the first time?” Joker was definitely confused, looking infinitely more unwilling to follow this train of thought. Akechi straightened his back and continued. He had a  _ hunch _ , dammit. “I just wonder if you'd be more… uh…  _ successful _ if you were in contact with someone… um…"

“Human?” Joker replied drily.

“ _ Alive _ ,” Akechi corrected. It wasn't the first time Joker had made self-deprecating comments on his own humanity as if he were some repulsive  _ monster _ . Each time it stung, a sour taste lingering uncomfortably Akechi’s mouth, as if he wished to wash it clean with sweet words of his own. For now, he'd settle for a soft gaze, one empty of fear and judgement. “If you don't want to, that's fine—”

“I'll do it.”

Akechi blinked up at Joker in surprise. “You're serious?”

The ghost looked a bit like he was sulking, eyes pointedly fixed on the coffee mug before him. He was clearly, clearly put off by the idea, and Akechi wouldn't blame him, but—

“I trust you,” Joker said, grey eyes shyly lifting to meet Akechi’s own. “If you think this is best, then I trust you.”

Akechi fought back a smile; it was entirely inappropriate in this context, to feel the stirrings of butterflies in his chest at Joker’s admission. The ghost’s honest and trusting gaze made his heart thud anxiously in his chest, the way Joker had the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips had Akechi feeling dizzy and warm.

He coughed; now wasn't the time. “I—good, I'm glad you do.”

Joker ran a lazy finger around the rim of the cup, bashfully ducking his head to avoid Akechi’s gaze. “So, how do you want to do this? Did you just want to, like… put your hand on my face or something?”

Akechi snorted. “No, I have a slightly more  _ elegant _ solution.”

Elegant was a gross overestimation; at Akechi’s behest, they'd moved over onto the couch. Joker was more or less in his lap and  _ clearly _ trying his best to maintain some distance if his incessant scooting was anything to go by. From here, Akechi had his hands at the back of the collar on Joker’s coat and unsure of whether or not to proceed. It was much harder to gauge Joker’s comfort without being able to see his expression, though ‘mild discomfort’ would have been a safe estimation.

“Weren't you the one who wanted personal space?” Joker grumbled, trying to surreptitiously shift away from the detective and going exactly nowhere.

Akechi chuckled nervously. “Cold feet, Joker? What happened to your bravado?”

“It died,” Joker replied.

With a sigh and a frown, Akechi let his hands drop from Joker’s collar and into the part of his lap that wasn't occupied by a ghost. “Cute.”

“I try.”

There was a small, awkward pause before Akechi cleared his throat. “If you don't want to go through with it, I'd completely understand.” Even if he  _ would _ be a bit disappointed. And out an unfortunate amount of money on very, very expensive coffee beans.

A small sigh slumped Joker’s shoulders; Akechi could feel the tension slowly bleed from the ghost's posture until he was simply  _ tired. _ Eternal rest is nonexistent, it would seem. “It’s not that—well, okay, that's part of it,” Joker finally admitted. “I'm just… scared, I guess.”

“Of?” Honestly, Akechi could hazard a guess, but he wanted to hear Joker say it. He wanted Joker to actually  _ show _ his trust. They existed in this hesitant waltz around truth, stepping deftly away from honesty, from revealing their hands, from muddying the waters of their already tentative and surface-deep relationship. It was a rhythm, Akechi had grown to understand, which Joker was as much a virtuoso as he. One, two, three; smile, nod, deflect.

There was a beat of heavy silence before Joker spoke again, before he paused their practiced dance of honest dishonesty. “I just don't want to get my hopes up.”

Akechi couldn't help it; the tired sorrow in Joker’s tone  _ hurt _ his heart more than he thought it would and his steps around unchecked and repressed emotions faltered. He had to do something,  _ say _ something to comfort him—

Before he could think, Akechi wrapped his arms around the ghost’s shoulders and buried his face into his collar. And Joker, to his credit, didn't immediately jump away. He did stiffen noticeably, craning his neck to try to look back at Akechi with wide, confused eyes.

“W-what… are you doing?” Joker began slowly, but made no efforts to disentangle himself.

“I don't know! Comforting you, I guess?” Akechi blurted, voice muffled by the leather of Joker’s coat as he tried to keep the faint flush from rising to his cheeks.

Joker blinked. “Bless you for trying, at least.”

That ungrateful little— “Let's just get this over with.” Akechi leaned back with a scowl and maybe a  _ little _ indignation; Joker just belted out a loud, amused laugh.

Oh no—Joker’s smile was blinding, so bright and cheerful, crinkling at the corners of his eyes. It was infectious, intoxicating and had Akechi’s heart freezing for a moment before hammering into a dizzyingly fast tempo. He remembered—Akechi could remember that same smile on a face free of blood, mirthful eyes glittering behind thick frames. Akechi could remember the lightheadedness, the way his knees would go weak and mouth dry seeing that smile and hearing the quiet laugh behind it.

Good to know it was still just as potent now as it was when Kurusu was alive, at least.

Joker pressed back against the detective, laying his head back onto Akechi’s shoulder with a wide grin. “Okay, okay, I'll stop teasing you,” that's a lie, but Akechi didn't call him out on it. Then, with a deep, shaky breath that belied his nerves: “Let's do this.”

Akechi nodded, raising his hands slowly, carefully to the ghost's face. And paused. “You're  _ really _ sure about this?”

“Of course I'm not,” Joker snorted. “But like I said before—I trust you.”

Akechi lamented the way his heart fluttered at the words, at the softer smile on Joker’s face. What was he supposed to say to that? ‘You're welcome?’ ‘ _ Thank you? _ ’ He opened his mouth to say something, anything at this point— “You're thank—” Wait.

Joker cracked up again; Akechi could feel the laughter (directed at him) shake his shoulders. “Whoever says you're charming needs better ears.”

It was only around  _ this _ insufferable idiot he dropped his words like a multi-deck game of fifty-two pick-up. For a moment, Akechi sat fuming, opening and closing his mouth as he decided whether or not to dignify it with a retort of his own. In the end, he decided against it for now; obviously he hadn't been remarkably successful thus far. “Drink your coffee,” he grumbled instead, lacking any real fire behind his words.

Oddly enough, Akechi could  _ hear _ the smile in Joker’s words. “Okay, okay. I'll drink it. But I need you to, uh…”

_ Right _ . Akechi jumped, feeling his nerves bundle in his chest as he slowly rested his hands on either side of Joker’s face. It would always surprise him how  _ warm _ Joker’s skin was, considering. And Joker—

It likely wasn't a conscious decision, but Joker melted into the touch, leaning back until he was almost completely flush with Akechi, something the detective became  _ extremely _ aware of. The ghost was relaxed; Akechi couldn't feel any tension in his body (which was far,  _ far _ too close) or any signs of discomfort.

Akechi  _ could _ feel that faint hum of energy that had sparked through his skin before, but this time it didn't have that same wildly intoxicating effect. This time, he was just drunk and dizzy on Joker’s proximity all on his own. He tried to ignore the implications of that.

After a few  _ long _ moments of Joker simply sitting unmoving, he seemed to finally remember the mission; he raised the mug to his lips. And paused.

Akechi noticed the hesitation. “It’s okay. I'm here with you,” he said softly.

Even if he couldn't see it, Akechi could tell there was a smile on Joker’s lips. “Thank you.” It almost hurt how sincere he sounded, how relieved he was for the detective's presence. Akechi wondered how long  _ that _ would last, how long before Joker realized his mistake.

But finally, Joker took a breath and took a sip.

The silence was deafening as it dragged on; Akechi wanted to break it, to say something, ask if he was all right—

“It’s burnt.” Joker said stiffly. Akechi could almost see his face scrunched in mild displeasure, but something was odd about that… 

“Wait, you can taste it?”

There was an awkward pause before Joker shifted enough to stare at Akechi with wide eyes and surprise etched in his face. “I guess I can,” the ghost replied lamely.

Akechi couldn’t help the joyful, albeit shocked grin that spread across his face. The reason was twofold—of course he was glad Joker could finally indulge in the one thing he’d shown interest in besides the detective, but it was always refreshing to have a hypothesis confirmed. Joker reacted positively to human touch. Or perhaps just  _ his _ touch. (The latter had implications Akechi chose to ignore for the time being; he’d revisit that train of thought if someone else who could see Joker cropped up.)

“That’s wonderful! How does it taste?”

Joker blinked, long and slow, before his nose scrunched and lips pulled into a pout. “Burnt,” he grumbled again, but turned back to the mug clutched in his hands—gloves?

“Well, not everyone can be a world class barista,” Akechi huffed without any real ire in his words. Even if he was mildly annoyed he’d gone through all this trouble only to get snubbed. “Maybe we should break into Leblanc—you can show me how it’s done.”

Joker chuckled lightly. “You’re encouraging a crime, Detective.”

“...Goro.”

A beat of silence as Joker’s lips paused at the mug. “I’m sorry?”

With a shaky, nervous sigh Akechi tried again. “Call me Goro. You’ve been calling me ‘Detective’ this whole time.” Never mind the strange yearning Akechi had for Joker—for  _ Kurusu _ —to say his name.

The length of time Joker took to sip at his coffee once more was giving Akechi ample time to plot the second murder of this unbearable ghost. But, eventually he did reply. “Goro,” Joker murmured idly, as if to taste the name on his tongue. Akechi idly wondered if it was a better flavour than burnt expensive coffee. Then: “Thank you.”

It was Akechi’s turn to be confused. “For what?”

“For giving this back to me,” Joker replied softly. The sorrow woven into the tone almost overpowered the warm contentment. “I didn’t think I’d ever—I thought I’d…” And suddenly Joker was hiccupping beneath Akechi’s fingertips, his shoulders shuddering.

Akechi was appalled. Instead of saying anything, though, he gently nudged Joker into sitting next to him on the couch facing him and from there… Akechi saw tears mixing with the black blood on his face.

There was nothing he could say to this. There was no way to comfort a dead man for all the things he’s lost. Especially when he’s lost everything.

So Akechi pulled him to his chest, and there Joker wept over burnt coffee.

* * *

Sakura was behind the counter once more when Akechi slipped into Leblanc the next day. Not that he thought the old man  _ wouldn’t _ be, but he was more surprised with the near-contented expression on his face as he wiped the counter down.

And again, he peered over glasses to regard Akechi—this time with significantly less animosity. There was still flecks of distrust buried in his expression, but it was a start. “You showed up,” Sakura said simply, pausing his cleaning to stand up straight.

Akechi cleared his throat a bit, more to let out some of his pent-up nerves than anything else. “Of course. I have every intention of following this through.”

Sakura’s stare was as piercing as ever, but with nothing to hide—at least not from him—Akechi didn't feel its sting. The old man smirked, amused and knowing. “Hope you know what you're getting into.”

That sounded an awful lot like a threat, but Akechi was willing to let it slide for a lead. There was no rational reason for him to be so invested in this case, sure. In fact, so far it was looking to be getting him in way, way,  _ way _ over his head.

But, as Niijima was always wont to remind him: he did always  _ love _ a good mystery.

“I can handle it.” He said with a practiced smile, the same one he offered in interviews, the same one he’d shown a monster dressed as a man. Sakura was less than impressed, but that was to be expected. The old man was far, far more perceptive than most.

“They're upstairs,” he sighed after a long, speculative silence. “Just… don't get your hopes up.”

It was more than he had. That was enough. “Of course. Thank you, Sakura.”

Sakura didn't reply, instead opting to shrug and return to his cleaning; Akechi took this as his permission to begin making his way up the stairs. He could feel eyes on his back the whole way up.

Until he had eyes on his face. Multiple pairs.

Six people, all looking to be about his age, stood at the top of the steps. Some of them looked familiar: the two blondes he’d seen at the café before Kurusu had disappeared a few times, Niijima’s younger sister, and the daughter of an old target. The other two were strangers.

All with eyes on him, however. “...Hello,” he said stiffly, trying to quirk his lips into a smile he feared may have been more of a grimace. It didn't matter. None of them seemed to respond. They all seemed frozen, watching him with wary, cold stares. He needed to do something about this. “I'm Akechi Goro. I understand you all were acquainted with Kurusu before his disappearance.”

Niijima’s sister was the first to thaw, if marginally. “He doesn't… know?” She sounded almost dumbfounded and the Niijima trademark severe scowl was replaced with a blank confusion.

“No way!” The blond boy yelled—Akechi hoped in vain that wasn't how he spoke  _ all  _ the time—“He's a cop, ain’t he?”

Akechi wrinkled his nose a bit. That  _ was _ simply how the boy spoke. “A detective, yes. Why is that relevant?”

The curly haired girl—Okumura, he remembered with remorse twisting his stomach—was the next to speak, soft and slow. “Perhaps he wasn't working the Phantom Thieves case. If he wasn't, that would explain why he doesn't know who we are. All traces of that case were destroyed, after all.”

He liked her, he decided. But something she said piqued his interest immediately. “You all are the Phantom Thieves?” He said with a raised brow and perhaps less surprise than he  _ should  _ be feeling at that revelation. After a ghost popping up in his life, true curve balls were hard to come by.

But if they were the Phantom Thieves, that meant Kurusu—

Okumura offered a tiny, barely there smile. “We were.” There was an odd finality to the way she said that; questions were beginning to brew in Akechi’s mind at a breakneck pace.

“Haru!” Niijima's sister gasped, horror crossing her face. “Why would you tell a  _ detective _ that?”

“You all are long past the statute of limitations,” Akechi replied drily.

“We’re nowhere  _ near _ past the—" Niijima argued until Akechi raised a hand to stop her.

“As far as I'm concerned, you are.” He gave a polite smile before Niijima sputtered softly in shock. Honestly, he wished he could claim altruism, but in this instance, Akechi desperately needed their trust. Even if he had to  _ maybe  _ bend the law to get it.

“You're serious?” The blonde girl asked this time.

Akechi nodded slowly, watching the rest of the Thieves relax noticeably. Of all things for Kurusu to have been involved with… well, he wasn't surprised this was one of them. Honestly, it would explain  _ some _ things, like his infuriating insistence to never answer any questions about his life before his early death.

Clearly, he didn't want to incriminate the rest of them. Still, it stung that even after they'd grown so close, Joker, Kurusu, whatever, still didn't put his trust in Akechi. There were so many topics they never broached, so many things gone unsaid. Joker never spoke of his life for reasons that became increasingly clear the longer Akechi dug; Akechi never spoke of the blood on his hands, not yet. The conversations they had were empty, at least until yesterday. Empty of substance, of trust. Their relationship felt like walking a bridge of strands of silk: impossible and dangerous.

Akechi just hoped he wouldn't fall, not yet.

* * *

Akechi could admit he’d dropped the ball on the Phantom Thieves case; at the time, he’d been mired in his own cases and nearly drowning in self loathing. It was a product of poor timing he wasn't involved—due to the ‘unfortunate’ termination of one of his longest standing and abominable partnerships, he'd been… well, out of it. All he remembered about it was Niijima’s constant stress over it and the occasional interview question on his opinions.

Listening to how they had operated was  _ interesting _ , to say the least. As he’d suspected, blackmail was the primary focus of their operations; there was essentially a strike team in place to infiltrate the homes of their targets to gather evidence, the ‘navigation’ crew that directed them, as well as a hacker in their midst to dig up dirt online. The evidence procured would typically be inadmissible in court, and was, but the confessions from the guilty parties still led to their convictions.

They had been active up until a year prior—

“Oh,” Akechi murmured softly, watching as different stages of grief flickered on the Thieves’ faces. So that was why.

“He was arrested,” Niijima—Makoto, she had insisted with a hesitant smile—began with a voice that shook, if just a bit. “We  _ planned _ for that, but…”

“Something went wrong.” Akechi finished for her. An understatement—plans going wrong didn’t typically end in someone’s  _ death _ . “What happened?”

The Thieves fell awkwardly silent; up until this point, they’d been fairly forthcoming with their answers. When one fell silent, the next spoke, picking up where one person’s gap in knowledge began. From Makoto, he’d learned logistics, while Sakamoto provided insight on motives. Okumura spoke of their hopes for the future, while Takamaki tended to focus on righting wrongs of the past. Truthfully, the only one whom he  _ hadn’t _ heard anything from was the young Sakura, who simply sat playing with a small cat the entire time without making eye contact.

Now they  _ all _ refused to speak. That wasn’t a good sign. “You don’t know, then.” That had to be it. They  _ clearly _ wanted to help—the only reason they’d cut short like this was if they themselves were lacking the information.

He tried to keep from sighing. Another dead end.

Kitagawa was the first to respond, a surprise in and of itself considering his relative lack of participation in their conversations prior. “We know he was  _ murdered  _ while in custody, but beyond that…” The way he spat his words was unsettling. Akechi had thought him to be the absent, clueless artist. Clearly, he was wrong.

At this, Akechi noticed something odd. Sakura had paused, just slightly, as Kitagawa spoke. Her hands had paused, and face gone white, before she resumed pulling the ears on the cat.

Interesting.

“Well, it takes quite a lot of effort to murder someone in police custody. A man on the inside, disabling security… it'll take me some time to look into it.” Akechi said slowly, letting his eyes drift from phantom thief to phantom thief. Everyone had expressions ranging from bitter fury to aching sadness.

Except Sakura. Her face was blank. Almost carefully so.

He nearly smiled. Perhaps this wasn't as dead a lead as he thought.

“Of course,” Makoto replied, drawing Akechi’s attention back to the rest of the Thieves. She had a wry, wistful smile on her face as she slid on her coat—as almost  _ all _ of them prepared to leave. “Thank you for looking into this, Akechi.”

He offered a polite smile, but opted not to reply as the Thieves brushed by him, one by one. Sakamoto gave him a withering, distrustful glare as he passed, but said nothing. Okumura, however, offered a small, kind smile in passing and Akechi tried to ignore how that had guilt creeping up his spine.

But one by one they filed down the stairs and left. Everyone but Sakura.

Akechi milled languidly to where she was crouched on the floor with the cat with hands clasped behind his back. “Sakura, everyone has already left,” he said with mock concern.

Sakura didn't really reply, just shifted her eyes to stare unblinking at the detective. There was something, something to the way she stared that set him on edge; like she could see things the others couldn't. Or had seen things the others  _ hadn't _ .

This time, he did smile. “Sakura, what happened to Kurusu Akira?”

She seemed to startle, just a bit, blinking slowly up at him and hands freezing on the cat once more. And for a moment, she opened her mouth as if to finally say something, to tell him something—

And instead, she bolted out of the room, fast as a bullet, leaving Akechi inexplicably alone with a cat.

He glanced down, brown eyes meeting blue. “She knows something, doesn't she?”

The cat didn't reply.

* * *

“Where have you been going the past couple days?”

Akechi almost dropped his coffee mug in a mix of early morning sleepiness and cold surprise. “I'm sorry?” He replied, trying to not look as guilty as he felt.

Joker was perched across from him, arms folded over his chest and an inscrutable expression set on his face. Uncharacteristically, he'd refused the coffee that morning—Akechi had thought it odd at the time, but now the sinking feeling in his chest confirmed his suspicions. Joker had been planning his own interrogation for today.

“I just want to know where you've been going,” Joker said, watching him with scrutinizing grey eyes and a blank face. It was unsettling, to say the least, to be caught in the crosshairs of the ghost's skepticism. “I know you haven't been in for work, at least.”

Akechi wasn't sure if the annoyance he was feeling was from getting wrapped up into an unsolicited investigation or from the rising nervousness at potentially getting caught. Either way, he narrowed his eyes. “Why does it matter?”

For a moment, Joker did nothing but stare with a strange note of disappointment in a small frown. Then, he finally broke his eyes away, sinking down in his seat and visibly deflating. “It doesn't. You've just been lying to me.”

Ah. So that's what this was about. “If it doesn't matter, you won't mind if I don't answer, then.” Akechi replied primly, taking a small sip of his coffee and carefully trying to avoid Joker’s mounting frustration.

“Of course I mind!” The ghost sat up straight, anger twisting his face and flashing red in his eyes. “I don't like being lied to—I think I have the right to know the truth.”

Something in Akechi snapped; he set the mug down, lifting an icy glare to the ghost. “For what? Lurking in my apartment for a little over a week?” When Joker didn't respond, Akechi forced out a dry, humorless laugh. “How did you even know, anyways? Have you been following me?”

Joker startled a bit, looking affronted. “Of course not! Believe it or not, I do respect your privacy,” the ghost bit out. “Something  _ you  _ could stand to learn.”

“Then how?” Akechi’s grip tightened on his mug as anger filtered through his veins.

Joker paused. “I saw a text from Sae on your phone this morning. I wasn’t trying to snoop, but she asked when you’d be returning to work.”

Akechi’s brows furrowed. He’d woken up well after that text was sent. “Why were you up so early?”

There was a tense pause as Joker blinked at him, face blank. “It’s optimistic of you to think I sleep.”

“Then what do you do while  _ I _ sleep?” Akechi frowned, watching with irritation as Joker shifted uncomfortably in his seat but made no motions to reply. Another unanswered question, then. “For someone who won't answer  _ my _ questions, you sure seem entitled to answers of your own.”

There was a long, long silence. The unreadable expression was back, pale and empty on Joker’s face as the ghost just watched. It was hard to discern anything from it, but maybe that was the point. If there was anything Joker excelled at, it was being obstinate.

“I don't answer because it would put you in danger.” Joker murmured blankly after the silence dragged on for several excruciating moments. He didn't look angry anymore, or even worried, just blank. “But you seem happy throwing yourself into it.”

So Joker had figured it out. Akechi wished he could say he felt guilty, even a little, but he didn't. “It’s my job,” he replied simply.

Joker shook his head slowly before standing. “Stop looking into this.” He said, but without any fire in his words, the command felt hollow. It was almost like Joker had given up resisting, given up putting up any sort of fight. It made Akechi’s stomach turn. “I don't want you getting hurt.”

“Is that a threat?” Akechi asked, brows raised.

“A promise,” Joker smiled softly, eyes bleak and exhausted, before he completely vanished from sight and Akechi was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here have this hot dumpsterfire,
> 
> i split this way the fuck up so there's like another 10k in my doc rn and then a wip of another like 4k and it's just gotten so out of hand lord help me i don't have time for this
> 
> anyways ya so the next chap will be up. sometime. probably not until after chrimsms bc work is kicking my ASS,


	3. a problem-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akechi makes the mistake of thinking he's prepared for the truth.

Silent. It was silent in Akechi’s apartment; stagnant air hung musty and thick, oppressive and empty all at the same time. He’d never noticed just how heavy it was until now here he stood, lacking the catalyst for change.

Joker hadn't come back after their argument. Every morning, Akechi would brew a pot of coffee and pour it for two, only for the second mug to grow cold as time passed. Every morning, Akechi would hope to see a flash of red, to feel a chill on his spine, _anything_.

He didn't. Joker was gone.

And Akechi was frustrated. Mostly with himself for pushing Joker so far in the first place. It was clear Joker had his reasons for not giving answers, infuriating as they were. And it was _also_ becoming increasingly clear Joker may be the _only_ one with answers. Or, at the very least, any meaningful ones.

The Phantom Thieves had been of some help—through them he had learned Joker, Kurusu, _whatever_ , had been in police custody at the time of his death. They had also revealed it was _intentional_ for him to be arrested. But for what purpose, they refused to say. Beyond that, though, they could only give him information that was either unrelated or unhelpful. And even if he had suspicions that the young Sakura knew something, he'd been unable to get close to her. She’d either bolt on sight or the other thieves would steer the conversation away from involving her.

He was at an impasse. No one was willing to speak.

His head thudded against his desk again; he could feel the start of a migraine prickling at the back of his skull. Wonderful.

“I am a real detective,” he groaned into the polished wood. “I've solved cases… I'll solve this one too.”

“How’s the investigation going?”

Akechi didn't look up at Niijima as she entered his office, just huffed out a sigh. “You know the answer to that.”

A pause. “Not well, then. Figures.”

There was _definitely_ a migraine brewing, he could feel the pressure forming in his head and the dull throbbing take hold. “What do you want, Niijima?” If it was to gloat, Akechi would shut that down as soon as possible. He didn't need that right now.

She sighed, small and tired. “I just wanted to check in. I know it's a tough case.”

Akechi lifted his head, if only to shoot a cold glare at Niijima, one that lacked the energy to be intimidating. “Maybe it wouldn't be so tough if _someone_ would give me answers.” Like Joker—he could _easily_ blow this case wide open by being _honest_ for once in his undead life—

Niijima had paled a bit, glancing around suspiciously. Ah, that was right. She knew something as well and was being obstinate in revealing helpful information. Like everyone else at this point. It had honestly slipped his mind in the wake of the absolute disaster this case was turning into. “Akechi, I can't help you.”

His eyes narrowed. “And why not?” When she didn't reply, he stood, slow and unsteady as his head felt like it was sloshing with lead. Perhaps the migraine was to blame for his poor mood. “I hope you understand that I will need to interrogate you sooner or later, as this has become an active murder investigation.”

Shock flickered on Niijima’s face as her brows shot up. “Murder? How did you come to _that_ conclusion?”

‘ _The ghost of the victim has been haunting me_ ,’ he thinks bitterly as he offers a fake smile. Something caught his attention, though; the tone in her voice wasn't surprised, it was nervous. As loath as he was to back Niijima Sae into a corner, it was his last shot. The last remaining thread he could tug. For once, he hoped everything would unravel in his hands.

“I have my ways,” Akechi replies flippantly, watching as the color continued to drain from her face. He needed a lie, fast. Anything to get her talking. “The coroner’s report makes for interesting reading, for example.”

The bluff gets the expected reaction—Niijima now looks to be an odd mix of furious and absolutely horrified. “You dug up his _coroner’s report_? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

At this point, Akechi was sure he had a pretty good idea. Still, he offered a pleasant smile as his head hammered painfully with each beat of his heart. This was it—now or never, one final tug. Niijima was likely the only one he’d be able to needle into talking. “Perhaps we should take this conversation elsewhere,” he offered, watching as for the first time he saw Niijima's shoulders slump in defeat. “I know just the place.”

Niijima didn’t resist—though, she was decidedly _less_ happy to be slouched at the bar of Leblanc a little while later, and given the cold glares Sakura had been tossing her way, Akechi couldn't say he blamed her. Not that he felt a whole lot of pity for her as he downed his third cup of coffee in her silence.

Didn't help with the migraine any, (not that he expected it to,) but it was the liquid courage Akechi needed to break Niijima’s stubborn, quiet resolve. “What do you know?”

For a long while, Niijima seemed like she was going to continue to be stubborn with pursed lips and a tired glare fixed on her cooling coffee. Just when it seemed she wouldn't talk, she would take her words to the grave, Niijima spoke. “You were right.”

That threw Akechi off guard. “About what?”

“He was murdered,” Niijima said simply, so matter-of-fact that Akechi didn't register the words right away. She took that opportunity, the space between her words and his understanding, to continue. “Right in police custody.”

Akechi knew this already—it wasn't hard to piece together given the information, scant as it may be. He’d known Kurusu was murdered; the Phantom Thieves had said as much themselves. But something about hearing it so confidently stated, definitive and sure, had unease settling in the pit of his stomach. The gravity of it was only just now sinking in.

“While he was in custody?” Akechi choked out. He set his mug down with shaky hands and fixed his gaze to the counter. This wasn't new information, not by any stretch of the imagination. So why was it _affecting_ him like this?

Niijima hummed in response, quiet for a moment. “I was assigned to the Phantom Thieves case, if you remember. They’d brought him in for questioning, but I wasn't allowed to see him until days after the fact. He…” She trailed off.

Akechi wasn't sure he wanted to know what words died on her tongue.

“I questioned him, but he wasn't very… responsive.” There were hints of frustration in her tone, along with something Akechi couldn't place. “I got angry. I was stressed and so much had been riding on that conviction. So I stopped.”

Akechi lifted his eyes to stare at her, watched as tears began brimming in her eyes with muted horror. “Stopped what?”

The tears bled onto her face, brows scrunched an lips quivering as much as her voice. “Stopped interrogating him. I left because I was frustrated he wasn't cooperating, but he said something that was really suspicious.” Niijima swiped furiously at her face with the sleeve of her suit before pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. “And I ran back. There was something off about everything and I ignored it because I was angry, but right then it clicked. Something was wrong.”

For a while, it was silent in the café. There were implications in her words, in the tears Niijima tried to wipe away as her shoulders shook. Sakura was no longer facing them, no longer giving Niijima harsh stares or unwelcoming frowns. He was gripping the back counter with white knuckles and slumped, defeated shoulders.

And Akechi… for the first time in his life, he was beginning to truly wonder if there were things that were better left alone. Not once had he seen Niijima cry; whatever he’d stuck his nose into brought the strongest person he’d met to her knees. If even Niijima could bow, Akechi wasn't sure what that meant for everyone else. Or him, more specifically.

“What _happened._ ” Sakura ground out, nails digging and scraping into the counter. It wasn't a question, not really, forceful and teeming with a sickening amalgamate of emotions.

Niijima didn't reply right away. She sat, trying to calm her tears and her breathing enough to form words. Words that broke immediately upon saying them. “I went back to find him dead. Shot. Right in the head, right in the middle of his forehead.”

_...Right where the blood flows on Joker’s face..._

“He was executed.” Akechi mustered lamely.

Dead quiet. The air became thick, hard to breathe and harder to force words through, not that any of them wanted to. It was cold and uncomfortable and _quiet._ It made Akechi nauseous, each second that passed by unfilled.

“Congratulations, _Detective._ ” A voice hissed out behind him.

Akechi’s heart caught in his throat; if he hadn't been so surprised, so startled out of his wits, he might have noticed Niijima flinch too. But as it stood, as he stared eye to eye with Joker, as grey eyes roiled with fury and freezing air rolled off of him in waves, Akechi didn't notice. All he could see was a disappointed frown, and anger that bordered on just plain _tired_.

Akechi opened his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but before he could shove his foot in his mouth, Joker smiled, wry and small. It almost passed off as impressed. To Akechi, it fell flat.

“You've cracked the case,” Joker laughed. It didn't sound right, it didn't sound warm or kind like Kurusu always did, always sounding like he had a smile hidden in his voice. Right now, Joker sounded cold. Tired. Detached.

Angry, maybe.

There wasn't anything he could say. Nothing that wouldn't make him look crazy, talking to thin air. So Akechi stayed quiet, bit back his words as he was quite familiar in doing. He turned back around, back to the counter and away from Joker. The guilt starting to settle in his chest, and the holes burning into his back, kept him painfully aware of the ghost.

“What happened after you found him?” At this point, Akechi was hoping to play off the waver in his voice as a reflection of the sombre conversation. And, preferably, not noticeably shivering as Leblanc’s temperature dropped by the second.

Niijima shifted, but didn't move her hands from her eyes. For the best; Akechi wasn't sure he wanted her scrutinizing the way his eyes flicked around the café restlessly.

“I got the hell out of there.” Her voice, at least, had stabilized a bit. “It was only later, when I'd calmed down, that I got to work.”

That was enough to distract Akechi from the ghost that had now moved to sit beside him. His brows furrowed. “Work? Doing what?”

Another pause lingered uncomfortably in the café, this time accompanied by Joker softly humming something off-key. Akechi shot him a weary glare; Joker just sat slumped back with arms folded and a petty smirk on his face. Asshole.

Niijima stared past him with an odd look on her face—a strange cross between annoyance, confusion, and the distinct glare Akechi himself had earned a few times when he’d done something particularly childish. If he didn't know any better, he'd have assumed it was aimed at Joker and his stupid, juvenile horror music ambiance addition. The thought was forgotten when Niijima propped her chin on a tearstained palm and drew in a long breath.

“Investigating who that kid had pissed off.” She said on the exhale, eyes settling on the counter. “I knew his death would be swept under a rug, but… I still wanted to seek justice for him.”

“For all the good _that_ would do him,” Sakura forced out, still facing away from both—all, Akechi supposed, as Joker was still here—of them. The counter in the old man’s death grip, however, was looking a bit wetter than it had before.

Joker’s humming faltered; Akechi spared a glance, just for a moment, to catch the briefest flickers of something besides _anger_ on his face. Something more akin to remorse, perhaps.

The ghost fell silent. Niijima didn't.

“It was all I could do,” she said. At the very least, Sakura’s words didn't seem to piss her off. Instead, Niijima looked almost agreeable. “I was too late to save him, and it's too late for what-ifs, but I would be lying if I said it doesn't keep me up at night.”

“Did you learn anything?” Akechi asked. Immediately her expression paled.

Nothing good, then.

“I dug around,” she began slowly, tapping a nail anxiously on her coffee saucer. “I didn't get very far.”

“I'd hope not,” Joker murmured; Akechi resisted the urge to look back at him, to see what kind of expression accompanied those words.

“Why not?”

For the first time in the conversation—or maybe just the first time in while—Niijima looked him dead in the eye. “I started receiving pictures of Makoto in the mail from an unknown sender. At first, I wasn't going to let that stop me, but…”

Akechi thinks he knows where this story was headed; it was ringing vague bells the longer Niijima spoke. “Makoto was attacked. I remember.” He remembers how hysterical Niijima had been, mostly. It made more sense now than it had back then.

Niijima winced and dropped her gaze again. “It wasn't anything serious, but… it was enough to make me think twice.”

“Makoto was attacked?” Joker asked softly. This time, Akechi did turn to catch furrowed brows and the first notes of guilt creeping onto Joker’s face. It broke through the bitterness that had settled in his expression, leaving Joker’s eyes brimming with concern and, so, so tired.

Odd that Joker _wouldn’t_ know about that, honestly. Akechi had assumed that the ghost kept tabs on the other thieves—either he’d been wrong about that or Joker had absences in his memories. Though, Akechi doubted Joker would give an honest answer if asked, so he simply filed the information away for another time.

Shaking his head, he turned back to Niijima; she was distracted, brows knit together and eyes over his shoulder, but his question brought her back. “What makes you think the incidents were connected?”

Niijima’s lips pressed into a thin, wry smile. “Makoto told me as much. She had let slip something about Shido when she was explaining to me what happened.”

Akechi’s blood ran cold.

“Shido?” He croaked out, but it felt distant. He couldn’t hear his own voice through the rush of blood in his ears, through the world collapsing in on itself around him. So much for escaping his own demons. “You’re sure?”

Niijima seemed surprised, though Akechi couldn’t blame her. Very, very rarely had he ever let his mask slip. At the moment, it may as well have been ash before them for all the good it was doing. “I don’t know how those kids got involved with him. I don’t really want to know. What I _do_ know is that it’s too dangerous to keep looking into, Akechi.” Her face settled into a weary concern, exhaustion poisoning her eyes and aging her well beyond her years. “You need to stop digging into this.”

For once, he was inclined to agree. Niijima likely didn’t know just _how_ dangerous it was, not really. No one did.

Perhaps Joker did, actually.

Pieces were falling into place. If Shido was truly the one responsible, it would explain how Kurusu had been murdered in police custody. That would be child’s play for that monster with how much of the force he had in his back pocket. Keeping Niijima quiet through intimidation was right up his alley.

Haunting Akechi’s life when he’d finally been free, finally hoped for a life unchained from him, was right up his alley.

“Thank you, Niijima.” Akechi said, but it didn't feel like it came from him. The words felt detached, disjointed and surreal as Akechi’s head spun and came to a halt all at once. “I should take my leave.”

It was clear he was fleeing—it didn't take a detective to sort that out.

Niijima didn't stop him.

So he ran. He left the shop without even a glance back and every hope of forgetting everything he’d just learned.

* * *

Most days, even if it was a bit bland, Akechi didn't mind his apartment. The quiet was nice; it helped him focus, it brought him peace. Spacious enough to not feel claustrophobic, small enough to not feel lonely, anonymous enough to feel safe. Most days, he almost felt at home.

Most days.

Akechi hadn't moved in a while, hadn't gotten up to do much of anything beyond staring blankly at the ceiling above his bed. He hadn't even bothered to look at his phone that had long since croaked out it's last chirp. He wasn't sure he ate. Or slept. Or did much of anything.

Time was passing, and Akechi was being left behind. He couldn't bring himself to care, not really. It didn't matter. Not really.

* * *

Akechi woke with a start some odd hours later—it was cold in his apartment, uncomfortable. He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling once more, as if his eyes could cut through the darkness, as if he’d find anything staring back.

As it turned out, he would.

Instead of the bland, blank ceiling, he was met with a bland, blank grey stare. Akechi frowned.

“Welcome home,” he said with as much energy and gusto as he could muster.

Clearly, it was unimpressive; Joker’s empty expression didn't so much as flinch. “You're moping,” he replies plainly.

“I think I've earned it.”

That earned him a withering glare, just as halfhearted as the response. “You say that to the ghost.”

Fair enough.

Akechi waived Joker out of the way enough to shove himself into sitting, propped up lamely on one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other. “Didn't expect you back.”

“Where else would I go?”

“Where _did_ you go?” Akechi fired back, righting his posture and fixing Joker with the best glare he can muster.

It must have been enough—Joker faltered. And for a moment, he looked as if he may answer, mouth open and eyes fixed anywhere but on Akechi.

Then silence fell and it became clear. Another question Joker wouldn't answer.

“Whatever,” Akechi muttered bitterly, moving past Joker to stand. He couldn't find the energy to be angry, not really. Mostly, he was just tired. Tired of the lies, the questions, and the silence. “Not like you'd tell me anyways.”

Joker made an offended noise, caught somewhere between a growl and a sigh. “It's not that I don't _want_ to tell you the truth. It's dangerous to—I don't want you to get hurt because of me.”

Akechi didn't reply. Instead, he wandered into the kitchen and absentmindedly began brewing a pot of coffee. His stomach was turning too much to eat right now anyways.

He watched steam puff from the coffee maker without a word, both lost in thought and trying desperately not to think. There was no point in thinking, in asking questions anymore—Akechi knew enough now to understand he’d dug into something he shouldn't have. And he didn't know how to feel about that.

But the coffee was done; he poured two mugs, and sat at the tiny table beside the kitchen and tried not to think.

At first, Joker didn't join him. The ghost was still perched on the edge of his bed, staring as if he had something to say yet never saying it. Fitting, honestly, that someone caught between life and death would be indecisive as well.

Eventually Joker slunk meekly over to the table, chewing on his lip nervously as he slid into the seat across Akechi. And for a while longer, he was quiet, making no moves to take the second mug of coffee Akechi had habitually made.

“I was keeping tabs on the old phantom thieves,” Joker finally said. Akechi blinked up in surprise at him, opening his mouth to reply when Joker held up a hand to stop him. The tiniest hint of a smile ghosted across his face as he continued. “That's what I do when you're asleep. I go check up on everyone to make sure they're okay. To still be… part of their lives, I guess.”

One mystery solved, but it was a bittersweet victory knowing it pained Joker concede like this; the shaking in his voice, the grimace he wore, was evidence enough of that.

Akechi sipped his coffee, trying to form a response. “I see,” was all he could come up with.

Joker smiled wryly at him. “Should have known you’d find them, though. Guess I underestimated you, Goro.”

Akechi bristled at that a bit. “That was foolish,” he huffed out with a tired glare. “It wasn't particularly difficult, you know.”

With a hum, Joker snagged the other mug of coffee. “I guess not,” he said simply. There was something in his tone, in the way he wasn't quite meeting Akechi’s eye, that bugged him. It was obvious there was something still on his mind.

Akechi didn't push it. He didn't want to.

Joker did, apparently. “Can we talk more later?” He asked, still avoiding Akechi’s gaze but something in the mood shifted. The ghost still looked nervous, but much less gloomy; Akechi frowned.

“Why?”

“What, don't want to talk to me, Detective?” Joker grumbled, pouting over the mug of coffee he couldn't drink.

“I didn't say that,” Akechi replied. “I _meant_ why later? We can talk now.”

Joker didn't respond right away, but at least he looked like he was going to. “I just…” He sucked in a breath. “I just want to gather my thoughts a bit first.”

With another sip of his cooling coffee, Akechi nodded. He didn’t necessarily _like_ the idea of putting off clearing the air, but if it meant Joker would be honest for once he was willing to take the chance. “All right. I’ll be here when you want to talk.”

“Thank you.” A small smile, then: “I’m going to, uh, wander around outside a bit. I’ll be back.”

And with that, Joker disappeared once more.

* * *

Hours had passed before Joker returned, popping back into the apartment as if he’d never left, looking much the same as when he vanished. Though, Joker was definitely nervous now, that much was clear. He was far too squirrelly, far too skittish, and had been since his uneventful reappearance. Even now, as Akechi watched him flit anxiously across his apartment from the couch, watched as Joker opened his mouth to say something, then immediately snap it shut, he didn’t press it. It was Joker who’d asked to have a conversation later, to sit down and _talk_ , but now the ghost was almost too hesitant to do so.

Almost.

“Goro…” Joker started, finally coming to a standstill. (Something Akechi was infinitely grateful for—he’d started to get dizzy watching the ghost hysterically flicker about the apartment.)

“Yes?”

There was a pause, one long enough that Akechi was sure Joker would shut down and flee once more. He was pleasantly surprised when he was wrong.

“We should talk,” Joker stated firmly, edging closer from where he’d been lurking in the kitchen. The way he wrung his hands belied his conviction—or lack thereof.

Akechi blinked. “You already said as much earlier,” he reminded, raising a brow as Joker’s face flushed pink. It would always be interesting to him that Joker, who was very much dead, could still react in distinctly human ways.

Such as stuttering. “Y-yeah! Yeah,” Joker said lamely, a shy, embarrassed smile creeping onto his face. Akechi was almost feeling guilty for teasing him, with how obviously nervous he was.

 _Almost._ There was just something so satisfying about watching Joker be the one floundering, watching his composure shatter. Akechi wasn’t entirely sure _why_ , but the longer he lingered on it, the more uncomfortable that train of thought became.

So he tried not to think on it too much. He'd been doing a lot of that lately, not thinking.

Eventually, Akechi cleared his throat to interrupt Joker’s fretting; grey eyes met his briefly before darting away. “What did you want to talk about?”

“You know!” Joker laughed awkwardly; Akechi bit back a wince as it died out slowly, uncomfortably. And frowned when Joker didn’t continue.

“No, I don’t.” Akechi crossed his arms and settled into the couch. Clearly this was going to take a while. Pulling teeth from Joker was always a drawn out process, something Akechi wished he had more consistent luck with. Mostly, though, it just ended with Joker angry with him. “Stop dodging this. You’re the one who wanted to talk.”

With a low groan, Joker seemed to just _melt_ onto the floor until he was squinting at the ceiling and pouting. “I know! I do. Or I did. Still do.”

“You’re rambling.”

Joker glared at him. It wasn’t very impressive from his spot on the floor. “Fine. I’m nervous, okay?”

Seems he was going to deflect by stating the obvious now; Akechi sighed, patting the spot next to him on the couch. If Joker was going to sulk somewhere, it could at the _very_ least not be on the floor. “I gathered that,” he said airily as Joker slowly, reluctantly, made his way to the couch. “But if you’re going to keep being difficult like this, I have better things I could be doing.”

That was a boldfaced lie, but it seemed to be enough to jumpstart Joker into conversation. “Right,” he replied, flopping heavily into the space next to Akechi with a deep breath. “I just… think you can stop calling me ‘Joker,’ is all.”

Akechi blinked at him for a moment, trying to process the first full sentence Joker’s said all night. His eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry?”

Grey eyes met his, clearer and more confident than they’d been. “I know you know who I am. I’d have to be an idiot _not_ to.”

Fair enough. Joker _had_ caught him snooping a few too many times.

“And it just—I don’t know. It feels weird that you still call me that.” He continued, a glove nervously tugging at unruly bangs. “Just call me Akira.”

It took a moment for Akechi’s brain to catch up. Maybe longer than it should have, honestly, but seeing Joker—Akira?—so forthright for the first time since he’d died (and longer, if Akechi was honest,) was strange. Having Akira actually confront him about it, actually give him the go ahead to use his real, actual, honest-to-god name, was strange.

Having Akira’s face be red and a shy smile on his face as he said so, was strange.

Akechi’s heart skipped a beat up until he realized he was probably expected to reply. “Oh! Yes. I can. Do that.” It was Akechi’s turn to shove words through an anxiety woodchipper, to catch on consonants and vowels. “I can do that, Akira,” Akechi tacked on hastily.

Akira smiled. “Thanks. I haven’t… heard it in a while.” He stretched his arms above his head with a contented sigh before grinning mischievously and flopping onto Akechi’s lap. “Feels nice,” Akira hummed—the impish glint in his eyes skewed the words a bit, though.

Akechi sputtered. There were so many things he could say right now. There were so many things he wanted to say. Or do. Resisting the urge to brush Akira’s bangs from his face, from reassuring him as many times as he needed and validating him as many times as he needed, was hard. Impossible, even.

So impossible, that Akechi’s hand was gently smoothing impossible curls and pulling tangles from the inky hair. At first, Akira looked as if he was going to protest—Akechi wouldn’t necessarily have blamed him, honestly. He’d always been so careful to keep a safe distance between the two of them.

As Akechi worked out the knots, however, Akira’s eyes slowly slipped closed with a slow, serene sigh. As Akechi’s hands pulled through tufts of vaguely-wet-but-not-really bangs, Akira’s breathing evened out and muscles relaxed.

As Akechi smiled, he was sure Akira had fallen asleep; he was surprised when the ghost spoke up again.

“You’re always so nice to me,” Akira murmured, not bothering to open his eyes, but leaned his head into Akechi’s touch like a needy cat. “I don’t know what I did to deserve it but… thank you.”

Akechi’s hands paused combing, just for a second, before he replied. “I wouldn't consider this _nice_.”

At that, Akira cracked an eye, small frown tugging at his lips. “What, do you make a _habit_ of petting ghosts?”

If Akechi had been drinking anything, it would have found a new home on the walls of his apartment as he nearly choked. He pulled his hands back as if electrocuted—although, given who he was dealing with, that could still very well happen _anyways._ “Of course not!” He exclaimed hoarsely, trying to shove air back into his lungs. “I do not—I am not _petting_ you!”

“Could have fooled me,” Akira said with a smirk, sitting up enough to be right in Akechi’s face. And for the second time that night, the air in Akechi’s lungs was mysteriously absent. “If it makes you feel any better, most of the other thieves said I'm _basically_ a cat.”

“It doesn't make me feel better, but thank you for that.”

Akira snickered. “Oh, come on. I'm just teasing you.”

“I gathered as much,” Akechi sniffed. “I don't know why you find it necessary to do so, however.”

At that, Akira looked thoughtful. His gaze shifted noticeably away from Akechi. “I don't know. Maybe because your reactions are cute?”

Akechi wrinkled his nose. “ _Cute_?”

“Uh,” Akira replied lamely, still avoiding Akechi’s eyes. “Yeah.”

He was close—too close. Akechi could feel the chill seeping into his skin from Akira’s presence, could feel the contrasting warm breath on his face. Dichotomy, even in death, was one of Akira’s most notable features. Even dead and gone as he was, the flush underneath the black blood staining his face belied something that was still very much alive.

They were close. _Too close_ , but Akechi couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward just a _little_ bit and closing the minute distance between them.

He’d daydreamed of kissing Akira, back in the quiet nights spent in Leblanc. He wondered then if Akira’s lips would taste of coffee, wondered if Akira would smirk, ever so slightly. He wondered if Akira would ever give him the chance. When Akira had disappeared, he’d lamented never trying yet applauded himself for the restraint. Akira deserved more—deserved _better_ —than him, better than a murderer in high schooler’s clothes.

Even after he disappeared, Akechi wondered. Even as he gradually forgot the barista with messy hair and piercing eyes, Akechi dreamed of lips tasting faintly of coffee and a soft smile.

Now, though, Akira’s lips tasted bitter—almost metallic. They moved against Akechi’s own, unsure and languid and _warm_. Akechi could almost taste sparks on Akira’s lips, felt nearly electrocuted as he lifted his hands to cup bloodied cheeks. He didn’t pull back, even as he felt crackling energy beneath his hands, his lips, tasted the currents beneath the surface. Dangerous, honestly. Neither he _nor_ Akira knew what that energy could do if it got out of hand.

Akechi found he didn’t really care. Not with Akira looping arms around his neck and sighing into the kiss, not with his heart racing in his chest and matching the rhythm of the thunderous energy beneath his touch. Even if he had tasted poison on Akira’s lips, saccharine and laced in old blood, Akechi would drink it in willingly. Part of him wondered if he should be concerned by that—the other part of him was too busy drinking in the iron taste on Akira’s lips to give a damn.

And as quickly and impulsively as it happened, it was over; Akira pulled away, if only to bury his face in Akechi’s shoulder. And for a while it was quiet, almost painfully so, with Akechi’s heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Akira mumbled into his nightshirt, muffled and soft. “I’m glad we did. But we shouldn’t have done that.”

Akechi unfortunately agreed.

* * *

Akira had disappeared from the apartment again after the kiss—this time with a promise to return, but no real timeframe to do so. Akechi didn't mind, not really. Not even when the silence settled back into his apartment, or when the chill in the air dissipated. He needed time to think, to process the implications of his actions, before he’d be willing to face Akira again. He needed time.

Akechi frowned blandly at the screen of his laptop. Time was something he continually found himself in short supply of—and would be especially true if he kept sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. If he wasn’t careful, it’d be time to punch his clock well ahead of schedule.

And Akira _had_ been right in their argument. He wasn’t being careful, certainly hadn’t been giving the case and the potential danger it held the respect he now understood it deserved. If he had known Shido was involved from the get-go… well, perhaps that line of thinking wasn’t worth investing a ton of time into. Akechi already knew the answer; if he had known, there was a high chance he never would have dug around in the first place, and an even higher chance he’d have sent Akira away on principle alone.

He was curious, sure. But a coward when it came down to it, a coward especially in the face of Shido. Maybe there had been a time when he wished to exact revenge, to seek justice for that deplorable man. That day, however, faded into the past with every new hold Shido enforced over his life. It was all he could do to get out alive when he did—in a very literal sense, the fact he was still breathing was a miracle in and of itself. A miracle he loathed some days, but still more than he could have asked for.

Akechi sighed. If it weren't a _stupid ghost_ worming into his life, Akechi would have easily put his life under Shido behind him. Sure, he would have spent every waking moment watching over his shoulder for the inevitable knife in his back, but he could have tried to move on until then. He could have pretended to trust Shido in his word there would be no retribution for his departure and _moved on._

 _I still could_ —the thought crept up on him slowly, slithering in the back of his mind like a parasite. And promptly, he squashed it down with thoughts of sharp-toothed smiles and bright grey eyes, of lips tasting of iron. Akira had, unfortunately, become very important to him; the budding warmth in his chest, the beginnings of feelings he’d much rather not name, had fueled a fire for justice in him that Akechi isn't sure he remembered _ever_ having, Shido be damned.

Akira _needed_ justice.

Akechi _wanted_ justice.

He pulled up his e-mail, a strange determination burning in him. For Akira, he’d see this through. Akechi already knew the culprit—or at the very least, the mastermind. All that was left to do now was gather evidence and finally take that bastard down.

* * *

Akechi had fallen asleep on his keyboard a while ago, after hours upon hours of pouring through old cases _he'd_ been involved with and more recent activities Shido had been involved in, digging through rumours and scandal alike to find a thread he could pull. The only thread he’d found, however, was the information Akira was the one and _only_ death since Akechi left Shido’s employ. An interesting fact—with the sickest sense of pride, Akechi noted Shido had never found a replacement despite how disposable he made Akechi seem.

It had been shortly after that epiphany that he nodded off, scrolling through dull news articles of Shido’s candidacy for prime minister, words blurring together until finally his eyes slipped shut. And truthfully, when he was jolted awake by loud, repetitive dinging blaring from his laptop, it _felt_ short. A cursory glance at the clock on his computer crushed that idea with the unwelcome information it had been at least nine hours.

Speaking of his laptop—Akechi glared blearily at the screen, hoping to find some way to shut that noise _off_. Instead, he found a small, bouncing cartoon, a crudely drawn creature with no eyes and a shark toothed grin hopping in time with the ringing.

He frowned. An alarm? He didn't remember setting one. Akechi clicked on it, and with a mixture of relief and horror, the noise shut off, as does his screen.

Great. A virus.

He’s in the middle of pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation when the screen flickers to life again, with the creature prominently splayed across it and a crackling from the speakers.

“ _Akechi Goro, current detective and former lapdog for Shido Masayoshi,”_ a heavily robotic, synthetic voice calls through the speakers. Akechi felt his heart sink and face go white. “ _I am Alibaba.”_

Alibaba. The name rang a bell; absently, Akechi remembered they're the hacker responsible for taking down Medjed and joining forces with the Phantom Thieves. He’d already had his suspicions for their identity before, but lacked a motive to truly discover it.

“Hello Alibaba,” he replied coolly. “I hope you have business interfering with my laptop like this.”

“ _I do not act without reason._ ” So they could hear him. Unsettling. “ _Today, I contact you about the thief killed in captivity. Your investigation has been slow, so I wish to offer my help._ ”

“How generous. What’s the catch?”

A pause. Akechi watched the shark toothed creature flicker on his screen.

“ _You must bring down Shido Masayoshi. That's all I ask._ ”

He snorted. “As if that wasn't the plan to begin with.”

If a robot could sound flustered, Akechi was sure the indecipherable static pouring from his laptop was as close as it could get. _“O-of course! I'm just… setting the expectation. Yeah. Yeah!_ ” A staticky cough, then lamely: “ _There. Expectations set._ ”

Akechi bit back a sigh as he rubbed at his eyes; of all the things he wanted to deal with at the moment, this was dreadfully low on that list. At the very least, it was giving him fresh insight into the company Akira once kept. _Interesting_ company. “I’m not sure the purpose of these theatrics. I already know the identities of the rest of the thieves—and to be frank, given a moment and perhaps a cup of coffee, I could theorize yours as well.”

He glared at the screen, as if he could glean some sort of expression from the bouncing shark-toothed cartoon. The silence itself was almost an answer on its own.

“Well, whatever,” Akechi sighed, leaning back in his chair with more fatigue than someone his age should carry. “You’re extending your assistance, yes? I must admit, I am curious to know what you can offer.”

Alibaba cleared their throat, the noise crackling through his speakers. _“Yes! Yes,”_ they said, slipping back into the mysterious hacker persona. Akechi resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _“I can bestow upon you key evidence linking Shido to the crime._ ”

Shido had _never_ been the type to leave loose ends; if Akechi’s prior employment had taught him anything, it was that loose ends and threats of evidence had the unfortunate tendency of exacting death sentences on those who held them. It was a dangerous game to build cases against Shido, as no doubt his numerous deceased political adversaries and piles of dead prosecutors could attest. A rigged game—the only victor Shido, and his many, _many_ enemies crushed beneath his heel in the graves they dug themselves the moment they dared to challenge _him_.

Akechi’s stomach turned. There was a very good chance he’d be digging his _own_ grave by involving himself further—or at the very least, move up his impending untimely death to be much sooner than anticipated. This could put him squarely back in Shido’s radar, yet: “What evidence would that be?”

" _Video evidence of Shido murdering the leader of the Phantom Thieves_ ,” Alibaba said, but Akechi didn’t think he heard that right.

Surely that was impossible. _Surely_ Shido would never be so careless as to allow himself be recorded committing a crime, let alone actually directly _commit a_ _murder_. Surely Alibaba lied. _Surely that was a_ _prank_. **_Surely that was impossible._**

“Impossible.” Akechi spat, feeling a sick anger rise in his stomach. Impossible. It was impossible. Shido was far too careful to be that foolish. Shido had ruined his life for far too long to make such a rookie mistake. “You _cannot_ lie to me like this.”

“ _I'm not lying, Akechi—”_ Alibaba began, but he cut them off.

“It was at the station, yes? He has control of the camera feeds there. Control of the force itself.” Akechi tried to calm his breathing; Shido had too much power to ever be caught doing something so _incredibly_ _stupid._ “There’s no way. There's _no way._ ”

“ ** _I_** _had control of the feed!”_ Alibaba screamed, the force of it rattling his laptops and dissolving the sound into a crackling mess. “ _I did! I was recording it. I watched him_ ** _die!_** _I watched that_ ** _monster_** _murder Akira!”_ There was a distinct set of static, rhythmic like sobs.

For a moment, Akechi was silent, letting the weight of those words sink in. Letting them chill his instinctual, unreasonable anger into something much less pleasant. Cooled straight into realization.

“I suspected you knew something, Sakura.” He said quietly, as if that could undo the damage of his temper tantrum. “Why not tell me sooner?”

The rhythmic static slowed into brief hiccups of noise, then a crinkling sniff. “ _You shouldn't have to see it. I was hoping you’d find enough on your own to do it but…”_

Akechi couldn't help but frown at that. “I hardly think that kind of precaution was necessary. I'm not fragile.”

There was another hiccup of static. “ _No, it's—you cared about him, right? Akira, I mean. At least, I'd hope so with how often he talked about you.”_

Akechi was both elated and horrified to hear Akira _talked_ about him before his death—as comforting as it was to know his affections weren't one-sided even then, Akechi couldn't help but lament the weight of missed opportunities in that idea. Instead of dwelling, however, “You must have some idea who I was. This isn't the first murder I—” _committed._ “It’s nothing new to me,” he finished with instead.

“ _If you insist,”_ Sakura replied with an unsettling lack of certainty. “ _I still think you—you shouldn't see him like that, not like—anyways. Come by Leblanc and I can give you the file,”_ she huffed out, before adding: “ _and beef up your laptop. Your encryption is pathetic._ ”

Akechi wrinkled his nose, but sighed in agreement anyways. “All right,” he replied airly. He’d been hoping to have no reason to leave the apartment, but alas. Looks like he was going to need to be presentable. “I'll come by. Maybe have some coffee while I'm there.”

The bouncing shark-toothed cartoon paused for a moment, idling before the screen went entirely black. With a frown, he poked at it, tapping helplessly at the keys. Nothing. He pressed the power button.

Nothing.

Akechi groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a tonal disaster and a goddamn mess but after deleting the original 10k i had for it like a goob im past caring. have this.
> 
> edit: thanks ao3 for almost double posting this oops

**Author's Note:**

> yep yep
> 
> I promise this isn't going to get as angsty as it could
> 
> alt. title as it is in my docs: roast in peace


End file.
